


Not With a Whimper, But—

by LittleLostStar



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Forbidden Love, Implied Character Death, M/M, Secret Relationship, Slightly Apocalyptic, blatant homage to Pushing Daisies, okay i lied it's very apocalyptic, reverse soulmate AU i guess?, the absence of archive warnings should serve as a warning, this one hurts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-07-01 05:43:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15767787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLostStar/pseuds/LittleLostStar
Summary: It occurs a few times per day all over the world, at least per the official records. Two people meet, and their palms begin to glow with an eerie white-gold light. They are each others’ Anathema, and if they touch, the world will immediately and irrevocably end.Yuuri has dreamed about and dreaded meeting his Anathema in equal measure his whole life. He never imagined he’d fall in love with him.





	Not With a Whimper, But—

**Author's Note:**

> I was so thrilled to be part of [Shall We Read](https://yoilitmag.tumblr.com) Issue One; this is a story I'm incredibly proud of, and I'm so happy that I can finally publish it. I want to extend a very large thanks to the litmag mods, who are absolute rockstars, as well as to [iruutciv](http://iruutciv.tumblr.com/), who was kind enough to create the illustration for me. 
> 
> The second issue of Shall We Read has now been released, and I encourage you all to [pick up a copy](https://yoilitmag.itch.io/shall-we-read-issue-2) if you can! 
> 
> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://iwritevictuuri.tumblr.com), where I write about monsters and yell about music.

 

“—the odds of meeting your Anathema are literally one in seven billion.”

_(this is the way the world ends)_

Yuuri squints into his glass, mysteriously empty for the fourth time and starting to blur around the edges. “Yes, I know,” he yells his reply, barely heard over the thud of the club’s music.

Beside him, Phichit shrugs, signalling the bartender for a refill. “So then what’s the problem? You’ve got gloves on, right? You’ve always been super good about touch avoidance. You don’t have to worry about anything.”

Yuuri absently drums his fingers on the bar. His gloves are lightweight and soft, tightly woven to block out both temperature and light, the fabric perfectly matched to the colour of his skin. Here, in the shifting dark of the nightclub, they’re almost invisible.

“ _You_ don’t have to deal with this,” he mumbles. “You’ve known about your Anathema since you were sixteen. You weren’t lying when they asked you if you were paired at the security checkpoint. I was.” Out of the corner of his eye, Yuuri looks at Phichit’s hand, where the dark aftereffect sits like a circular coffee stain on his palm—a sign that he’s been paired.

“They didn’t catch you, did they? I told you, Yuuri. This place never checks the ARC database. And, real talk: you deserve to have some fun.”

“Do I?” Yuuri grumbles, hiding his hands in his lap just as the bartender arrives with new drinks. He waits until she leaves before taking a sip, grimacing at the burn of cheap vodka and watered-down soda. “I could kill everyone just by being here and brushing past the wrong person.”

Phichit doesn’t reply to that, and Yuuri doesn’t expect him to. After a certain point, all conversations about Anathemas dissolve into a shrug and some form of _well, what can you do?_ , and the answer is always the same: nothing. There’s nothing to do but keep going, keep living, keep trying to forget the sword of Damocles hanging over every human on earth.

Phichit wriggles, twisting in his seat to nod to his boyfriend Chris, who’s waving frantically from the middle of the dance floor.

“Go,” Yuuri shoos him. “Have fun.”

Phichit raises an eyebrow. “You sure you’re okay?”

Yuuri sighs. “Gimme two more of these vodkas and I’ll be perfect.”

Phichit blows him a kiss as he hops off his barstool. “You already are!” he calls over his shoulder, and then Yuuri is alone. As he nurses his drink, he marvels at the mass of bodies moving together, all utterly unafraid to touch. Maybe he’ll be that way too, after he’s found his Anathema—after the very personal part of the nightmare is over, and he doesn’t have to wonder if he’ll be the one to trigger the apocalypse, and just has to worry about everyone else instead.

Yuuri tugs at the cuff of his gloves, a nervous habit made more prominent by his surroundings. He’s only gone clubbing a handful of times; people are distrustful of those who remain unpaired, and dancing isn’t really something that can be tightly regulated so that accidental touching is avoided at all costs. Yuuri spots a few people wearing dark gloves, the details of their hands disappearing into the gloom, their expressions a mixture of stubbornness, insecurity, and grief. The atmosphere of the club is tainted by a dark shadow, not just by the mere presence of the unpaired guests but also of the signs posted by the front door: **ARC Bill C-51 Afterimage Digital Scanning System Coming Soon**.

_(this is the way the world ends)_

_This place never checks the ARC database,_ Phichit had said. Yuuri sighs. _That won’t be the case for much longer._ While unpaired people cannot be discriminated against by law, the Anathema Registration Consortium has certainly gone out of their way to make life difficult and humiliating and very often dangerous for those who don’t know their Anathema, all in the name of international security. They’ve recently debuted a system that can automatically scan someone and identify the melanin concentration in an afterimage along with their fingerprints, making it easier and faster to separate the paired from the unpaired, and to track Anathemas wherever they go.

Yuuri turns to look over his shoulder, convinced he can feel the judgmental eyes of the people around him, but no one is looking his way. By all accounts, he’s just a slightly reserved guy at a club on a Saturday night. When Yuuri turns back to the bar, he nearly collides with someone, jerking back just in time to avoid their shoulders touching.

“Sorry!” the guy says, and Yuuri looks up to see that Phichit’s seat is now occupied by one of the most gorgeous men he’s ever seen in his life. His light hair reflects the strobe lights like a multicoloured halo, and the shadows accentuate the chiseled line of his jaw; when a white spotlight sweeps across the room, it illuminates a pair of gemstone-brilliant blue eyes. Yuuri feels his heart pound against his ribs, and he swallows the rest of his drink in two desperate gulps.

“That’s okay,” he manages to reply, suddenly mush-mouthed. “No harm done.”

The stranger juts his jaw in the direction of Yuuri’s hand, and he flinches before he realizes that he’s indicating the now-empty glass. The man leans in close—but not too close—to speak directly in Yuuri’s ear:

“I don’t mean to be That Guy, but what are you having, and can I buy you another one?”

He pulls back and Yuuri is jolted again by those eyes, the smile, the entire package. The fear and paranoia are receding from his mind, replaced by liquid courage making a damn good case for creating some new memories to pave over the old.

“Vodka,” Yuuri finally replies, unable to stop the grin on his lips. “I’m Yuuri, by the way.”

“Hello, Yuuri. I’m Victor,” comes the reply, and he holds out his hand to shake, so boldly that Yuuri jolts, before shyly accepting. If Victor has any reservations about feeling fabric instead of skin, he doesn’t show them; instead he leans closer, until their knees touch under the bar, and Yuuri finds himself all but throbbing with desire.

As they drink they converse, as best they can. Victor is new in town; he’s still looking for an apartment. He does remote work from home; when Yuuri asks why he moved, Victor shrugs, flashes a megawatt smile, and says, simply: “I wanted an adventure.”

Victor is so beautiful that it’s almost possible for Yuuri to let the strings of his anxiety go. The music is so loud, pounding through his very bones, that when Victor asks him to dance Yuuri is able to say _yes_ , and pretend that they’re just two people in a club without a care in the world.

( _this is the way the world ends_ )

Yuuri tugs his long sleeves down over his wrists and tentatively reaches up to twine his arms around Victor’s neck, following the lines of his shirt, avoiding the extremely tantalizing skin of his throat. Victor responds by wrapping his arms around Yuuri’s torso, and Yuuri has to bite back a shuddering sigh. His heart is pounding, from the music and the vodka and, if he’s honest, from good old-fashioned all-American lust. Victor’s lips are glistening with a sheen of sweat; his skin is warm even through multiple layers of clothing, and Yuuri swallows a wave of arousal at the idea of running his bare hands across it.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Victor yells, and his face lights up when Yuuri nods. They weave through the crowd, past the couches and bar stools, and out the front door.

Yuuri sucks in a breath of cool air. He can hear the muffled _thud_ of the music inside, the dripping of an eavestrough overhead, and the rumble of traffic a few yards away. A poster on the wall beside him swims lightly in his vision: **ANATHEMA REGISTRATION IS MANDATORY. 24-HOUR REPORTING LINE AT 1 (800) CALL-ARC. REWARDS OFFERED FOR SUCCESSFUL TIP-OFFS** . Someone has spray-painted the words _‘Fascist Pigs’_  in dripping red over it. Yuuri closes his eyes, squeezing them until the image fades away, and then opens them and grins at Victor like he’s something delicious.

“I live three blocks away,” he says, and Victor grins back.

“Then lead on,” he replies, and Yuuri does, giggling at some joke or other to stave off the building fever in his mind—the whispering suggestions that send goosebumps rippling across his arms. He leads Victor up the two flights of outdoor stairs to his front door, and is reaching into his pocket for his keys when Victor turns and backs him up against the wall.

Yuuri shudders as Victor steps close; his skin prickles with the potential for contact—the infuriatingly tantalizing promise of proximity. He can’t stop staring at Victor’s lips, so he sees when they twitch in a tiny, devilish smirk.

“I’ve wanted to do this ever since I saw you at the bar,” Victor murmurs, leaning in close, and every atom in Yuuri’s body shrieks _god, yes_. Victor raises his hand to cup Yuuri’s cheek, and he sees a fabric seam out of the corner of his eye. Victor isn’t bare-handed after all, but wearing the same sort of gloves Yuuri is, and—

“—wait,” he breathes, imagining the heat of his breath hitting Victor’s skin. “Can we—I want—”

Victor tracks Yuuri’s eyeline to their gloves, and nods, his eyes still blazing with lust. “Yeah,” he whispers back.

Yuuri swallows around the lump in his throat. “Your skin looks—” _so soft,_ he wants to say, cheeks hot.

Victor smiles, and he’s so gorgeous it’s almost a crime. “Yes,” he whispers back, already pulling at the fingers of his right glove. “Yuuri, _yes_ —”

Yuuri hooks his index finger under the hem of his own glove and yanks it off, tossing it away with a flourish, and reaches forward—

—Victor’s face falls.

 _Huh, that’s strange,_ Yuuri thinks first.

 _What did I do?_ he thinks next.

 _Did we trigger a motion light?_ he thinks third, only that doesn’t make sense, his apartment complex didn’t have motion lights a few hours ago, and Victor is looking down, and—

Yuuri feels his heart drop to his toes as he finally follows Victor’s gaze down to the space between them, and to the circles of soft warm light emanating from their palms.

 _Oh,_ he thinks. _This is the way—_

~

This is the way the world ends, until it doesn’t.

It occurs a few times per day all over the world, at least per the official records. Two people meet, and their palms begin to glow with an eerie white-gold light. They are each others’ Anathema, and if they touch, the world will immediately and irrevocably end.

Yuuri is trapped between the wall and the person who could trigger the apocalypse, but that’s fine, because he’s stilled by shock. His mind is processing a million different things at once, and they all coalesce into a bizarre kind of calm, like a photo mosaic turning many tiny images into a larger whole. He looks up to see that Victor has stepped back until he’s almost sitting on the balcony railing, blue eyes reflecting the light from his palm, and—

“—oh,” Yuuri hears himself say. “We need to get inside.”

Victor is sheet-white. “Okay,” he replies softly, casting a glance around before following Yuuri into the apartment. Yuuri kneels to greet Vicchan, the dog he adopted after his neighbour was relocated two years ago; he toes off his shoes and juts his chin at an easy chair, where Victor sits. Then Yuuri curls up on the couch and examines his hand. He thought the light might pulse in time with his heartbeat, but it’s a consistent smooth circle of illumination, shaded slightly at the edges where the afterimage will be. It doesn’t burn or ache; in fact, it doesn’t feel like anything at all.

Victor looks haunted; he opens and closes his mouth three times before words finally come.

“This was a mistake,” he croaks. “I’m so sorry.”

Yuuri feels his mouth stretch into a rictus grin and he bursts out laughing before he can stop himself—high-pitched, hysterical giggles that convey no mirth. He goes to clamp his hand over his mouth, but jerks it back as he sees the light emanating from his palm flash across his eyes.

“Sorry,” he chokes out, silently begging himself to calm down. “I j-just...fuck. I didn’t expect this.”

Victor is biting back his own smile, albeit a far sadder one. “Does anyone?” he replies.

“I—honestly, I’ve had nightmares about this moment my whole life,” Yuuri confesses, gingerly reaching out to scratch Vicchan’s ears. “I’ve been terrified of meeting my Anathema and fucking up and ending the world but there was also this sense of…anticipation? Like once it was finally over with then I wouldn’t have to be so afraid anymore. I’d know who to avoid.”

Victor smiles crookedly. “Well, now you know,” he murmurs. “It’s me.”

The dejection in Victor’s voice sticks in Yuuri’s craw, and he frowns. “I...I guess, yeah.”

He does not ask: _so what happens now?_ Because he knows, and so does Victor. _Everyone_ knows. A call must be placed to the Anathema Registration Consortium, reporting a new Anathema pair. Armed ARC officers will arrive at the apartment; Yuuri and Victor will have to describe the circumstances of their meeting, provide intricate details about their lives, and then one of them will be relocated to somewhere a minimum of 2500 miles away from the other. The relocation is done randomly—or, at least, it’s supposed to be. For the rest of their lives, Victor and Yuuri’s movements will be tracked by ARC, and if they breach that perimeter they will risk fines, arrests, or worse.  

“I’ll leave,” Victor blurts, as if reading Yuuri’s mind. “ARC’s  going to arrest me as soon as they see me. Just…give me two hours head start and then call them.”

Yuuri’s jaw drops open. “I’m sorry?”

Victor drums his fingers on the arm of the chair, making the light from his palm twinkle like a star. “I am not someone that ARC is invested in keeping safe,” he mumbles bitterly. “Now that I’ve found my Anathema, they finally have their excuse to jump me, and the afterimage scanning systems mean I won’t get far. And I know we just met, but you seem really nice, and I’d rather not have you beaten up and thrown in jail too.”

Yuuri rocks backward in horror. “That’s—that wouldn’t happen,” he sputters. “Not if we surrendered peacefully.”

Victor huffs a humourless laugh. “Please tell me you’re not that naive,” he says softly. Yuuri throws up his hands and begins to pace back and forth in front of the couch.

“Of course I’m not,” he retorts, “but—I just—” he stops in his tracks and hangs his head. “This is the moment when my life is supposed to begin.”

“Well, it’s the moment when mine pretty much ends,” Victor replies. “So forgive my cynicism. I—oh.”

Yuuri turns back to see Victor leaning forward, elbows perched on knees, hands dangling. Vicchan has hopped off the couch and trotted over to lick Victor’s fingers, his little tail wagging steadily. Victor’s face lights up as he reaches out with no small amount of hesitation to ruffle the dog’s ears; Vicchan responds by flopping over with a dramatic _whump_ , begging for a belly scratch which Victor provides.

Yuuri bites his lower lip as the puzzle pieces begin to click together in his head.

“Victor.”

“Yeah?” Victor looks up, and _god_ those eyes are intense.

Yuuri blinks. “ARC can’t mess with you until they know I’m your Anathema, right?”

“Right.”

Yuuri folds his hands behind his back. “Then…I won’t call them.”

Victor raises his eyebrow. “Yuuri,” he admonishes, “that’s insane. Just let me get away, then make the call, and you’ll be able to live your glove-free life, and—”

“—and know that you’re in jail because of me? No way,” Yuuri interrupts. “That’s not fair either.”

Victor stands up and walks over to him, and Yuuri’s heart flutters with a combination of attraction and terror.

“Yuuri,” he says, “they’re putting those scanners in _everywhere_. All it will take is one slip-up, and you’ll show up as paired but I won’t be in the system. They will absolutely arrest you.”

Yuuri suddenly yawns wide as the last of his adrenaline drains away, leaving his limbs rubbery and his head empty, overwhelming him with an exhaustion that can only be described as _profound_.

“Yuuri?”

“I—” another yawn. “Fuck. Okay. I’m sorry, I can’t do this tonight.”

Victor furrows his brow. “Are you serious?”

Yuuri shrugs. “It was a long day before I had five vodkas and nearly caused the apocalypse,” he replies. Victor sighs, his shoulders sagging.

“Fine, I guess I’ll...I don’t know. Find somewhere to hide. It was nice meeting you, Yuuri.”

Something pulls at Yuuri, yanks the word “Wait—” out of his mouth, and Victor pauses.

“What do you mean, ‘wait?’”

Yuuri swallows. “Just…stay here for tonight, at least. Don’t leave,” he replies. “You can take the bed, and I’ll crash on the couch. And tomorrow we’ll figure this out.”

Victor looks like he’s about to protest, but instead he sighs. “Okay.”

By the time they set up the couch, Yuuri’s eyes are heavier than he thought possible, and he flops down without even taking off his jeans, asleep almost instantly. He doesn’t remember his dreams.

( _this is the way the world ends)_

The next morning, he awakens to a heavenly smell coming from the kitchen, and sits up to see Victor, covered in flour, flipping a crepe in a pan. There’s a folded crepe on a plate set to one side, stuffed with strawberry jam.

“Sorry,” Victor says sheepishly, pushing the plate forward. “I bake when I’m antsy, and you had lots of ingredients on hand.”

Yuuri takes a bite of the crepe in front of him and his eyes roll back in his head. “These are amazing,” he moans. “You can stay _forever_ if you keep making these.”

Victor grins, raising an eyebrow. “Is that what you call working things out?”

“Later,” Yuuri mumbles. “After breakfast.”

~

They never do get around to working things out.

It’s incredible how normal it becomes, and how quickly, even as the world around them seems to get more tense. How Victor’s toothbrush joins Yuuri’s own in the bathroom, and how they claim their separate sides of the couch to watch TV each night, always avoiding the news reports. How Yuuri gets to sleep in most days, because Victor will take Vicchan for his first walk at 5am, before most of the neighbours are up, so no one will see. Eventually they clear out Yuuri’s little-used office and turn it into a proper bedroom for Victor; he cooks dinner for them every night, and bakes ridiculously fancy things on the weekends when he’s bored. Long sleeves become everyday wear at home, as do gloves; Victor springs for a high-end air conditioner one day in May, so they don’t have to risk the world due to the weather.

That same month, a charismatic young politician, who is running for Governor of Illinois with comprehensive plans to demilitarize ARC’s ground units, discovers his Anathema and loses the relocation coin toss; he’s whisked away overnight, and his shell-shocked campaign manager cannot confirm exactly where he’s been taken.

Victor never brings up their near-kiss, but Yuuri thinks about it all the time. He shivers when he puts his key into the apartment door lock, looking over at the patch of wall where it happened. He studies his hand and becomes fascinated with the softness of the light that emanates from his palm, even as he hears Victor tapping away at his keyboard in the other room. Yuuri sits and watches Victor do the most mundane things, his skin covered in goosebumps at the mere thought of how he could reach out and touch him—a quick hug as he leaves for work, mussing up Victor’s hair as he walks by the couch, picking an eyelash off his cheek as they eat dinner. There are a million innocent little ways Yuuri could touch Victor, and he fantasizes about them at length and in great detail, because he can’t bear to think of all the decidedly less chaste touches which will always be out of the question.

Of course, they don’t orbit each other entirely without collision.

One night, they turn on the TV to see a report about massive protests against ARC’s relocation of the Illinois politician—a random result that doesn’t feel random at all. Victor changes the channel to an old romance movie, his mouth set in a thin line.

“Do you wish you were there?” Yuuri asks, and Victor presses his index finger to his lips, thinking before he responds.

“I appreciate that people are finally starting to ask these questions,” he finally replies, stretching his arm out across the top of the couch. “You okay with this movie?”

Yuuri has no idea what’s happening onscreen; the crook of Victor’s arm looks too inviting, and he slides over before he can stop himself, heart fluttering in his chest. After a moment, Victor’s arm curls over his shoulders, and Yuuri leans in just a little, sighing contentedly. Then he turns his head and realizes with a jolt just how close their faces are.

_(this is the way the world ends)_

Yuuri knows he should pull back. He should be terrified of the risk he’s taking, of all the tiny little ways this could go horribly wrong. But he isn’t, because he’s staring at Victor’s lips again, watching them as they move to form his name:

“Yuuri…”

He swallows the lump in his throat and tears his gaze away, upward, to meet Victor’s eyes—but that’s not much better, because all he can see is the same lust that’s twisting his insides into knots. Yuuri’s breath catches in his throat as he sits, trapped between the painfully intense desire to close the gap between them and the animal instinct that takes the vivid mental image of kissing Victor and douses it in adrenaline, transforming his longing into an unrelenting and brutal warning—a flash of terror meant to pull him back from the brink of grave danger.

They sit there for what feels like an eternity; the adrenaline spike transforms into a wave, pulsing through Yuuri’s veins, making his heart flutter and pound, flooding his brain so that when Victor swallows it looks like his Adam’s apple bobs in extreme slow motion, and his voice seems to come from very far away when he whispers:

“Is this enough?”

_(this is the way the world ends)_

Yuuri blinks. “Enough?”

The light from the TV catches Victor’s eyes as they flick back and forth, searching Yuuri’s face. “You could…you could hang out with someone who doesn’t need to be kept a secret. Someone you could introduce your friends to. Someone who could kiss you,” he murmurs. “Someone who could love you.”

Yuuri is frozen to the spot, his mind still spinning with all the times in the past few minutes that he didn’t kiss, didn’t touch, didn’t give in, didn’t die. So the words don’t truly hit him until the next day, when he walks into the kitchen to see Victor up to his elbows in flour, rolling out a piece of pastry dough, humming absently to himself. In that moment Yuuri is overcome with something that short-circuits his brain, hijacking his arms and legs, so he can’t stop himself from grabbing a piece of cling wrap off the counter, clearing his throat so that Victor turns towards him, and pitching forward so that their lips meet with the plastic sandwiched in between. Yuuri feels Victor jolt in surprise before melting into the kiss with a soft moan, and in that instant the tense threads that have been pulling at Yuuri’s brain all break at once, his anxiety shattering to release a flood of emotions he’s no longer afraid to name.

Eventually they part with no small amount of reluctance, and Yuuri finally looks up to meet Victor’s eyes.

“This is more than enough,” he says softly. “And I’m already with someone who can love me.”

~

Ten miles away, Seung-gil Lee is arrested by ARC for breaching his Anathema’s perimeter in order to visit his sister in the hospital.

~

In August, they sneak onto the roof of the apartment building to watch the Perseids meteor shower. They lie on the concrete, side by side; as a particularly bright meteor streaks across the sky, Yuuri watches Victor’s face light up with wonder.

“Do you think any other Anathemas ever fell in love?” he murmurs.

Victor hums. “Who knows?” he replies. “But I had a professor in college who theorized that Anathema pairs were once soulmates, meant to be together forever.”

Yuuri blinks. “That’s an...extremely different theory.”

Victor’s face is beatific, and Yuuri imagines he can see the shooting stars reflected in his eyes as he smiles. “It’s kind of fitting, don’t you think? You meet your soulmate, and your hand lights up, just like how that person will light up your life. ARC is only a few decades old; before that, the records are more sparse. In the whole span of human history, if Anathemas really did work how we’ve been told they work, don’t you think that the apocalypse would have happened by now?”

_(this is the way the world ends)_

Yuuri swallows. “I’ve always wondered about that,” he mumbles.

“The way I see it, there are two options,” Victor says. “One, we are Anathemas, and _every_ human, no matter how deranged or afraid or aggressive they are, has always stopped just short of fulfilling their apocalyptic fantasies, because a fundamental element of human nature is the desire to survive no matter how tense things may get. Or two, Anathemas are not real, and it’s just incredibly convenient that ARC has worldwide power to track our movements, relocate anyone they want, and make people disappear if they break the rules even a little bit—and there’s no way to definitively prove them wrong.”

Yuuri swallows, but the lump in his throat doesn’t go away. “That’s…”

“—Extremely fucked up? Yeah,” Victor sighs. “It wasn’t exactly popular when my professor started writing about it either.”

“Why have I never heard this?” Yuuri asks, but deep in his chest he worries he knows the answer.

Victor’s smile is so bitter that Yuuri can taste metal just by looking at him. “He was arrested just before my graduation. His Anathema had gone rogue and was wandering the area, _apparently_ . ARC took him into protective custody and confiscated all of his writing under the guise of making sure that he—that _we_ —were safe. And I never heard from him again.”

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri murmurs.

“They took everything,” Victor says, “including work with my name on it. Two weeks after that, I came home and found my apartment had been tossed. I think ARC marked me as a sympathizer, but they probably couldn’t do much while I was still unpaired. I packed a suitcase and left that night.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Yuuri sees the light from Victor’s hand dim a little; he’s digging his nails into his palm, shaking ever so slightly.

“Hey,” he murmurs, bringing his own hand up, letting its light cast a soft glow.

Victor relaxes, uncurling his fingers, and he raises his own hand to mirror Yuuri’s; they hover there, a few inches apart, letting the light from their palms illuminate the space that separates them.

_(this is the way the world ends)_

“No one ever takes enough time to realize how beautiful the light is,” Victor whispers.

“...You’re not looking at our hands,” Yuuri murmurs back, his voice thick as he watches Victor catch his bottom lip between his teeth.

“You’re right,” he replies. “I’m not.”

Yuuri hears a gasp, and he furrows his brow, because Victor’s mouth didn’t move.

“Did you—”

There’s a crash from the direction of the roof’s doorway, and they look over to see Yuuri’s neighbour Michele, stumbling over a few pipes he clearly just kicked. He’s staring at them, breathing so fast that Yuuri can hear it.

“Mickey!” he cries out, as his insides go cold. “Wait!”

Michele has already raised his phone to his ear, his other hand flailing for the door behind him. “Yes,” he says, “I’m here to report an Anathema pair on my roof, and I think they’re about to—” his voice becomes unintelligible as he flees down the staircase.

“ _Please!_ ” Yuuri calls, running after him, vaguely aware of Victor trailing close behind. “Mickey, _please_ —”

This is the way the world ends.

~

“Stop!”

He’s running, shoes soaked, with the rain stinging his forehead where it hits. They’ve been on the run for four days.

“Anathema! Stop or we will shoot!”

Beside him Victor hobbles, his feet just skirting the surface of the puddles on some steps. Yuuri shifts his grip around Victor’s waist, pulling him closer.

_(this is the way the world ends)_

Victor’s shirt has turned pink around the hole where the bullet struck his side, the blood diluted by the pouring rain. He’s gasping for air, every heave of his chest pushing a little more blood from the wound, creating concentric rings—a slow chronicle of a death.

“It’s okay,” Yuuri hears himself say, over and over again like a prayer. “It’s okay, Victor. It’s okay. We’re okay.”

He can see the sirens behind them reflected in the puddles ahead, flashes of red and blue. “There,” he grunts, swinging left into a narrow alley. “Come on, we can do it—”

Yuuri pushes Victor through a gate, squeezing in after him. He feels Victor’s knees buckle, and ducks them both into a small alcove normally used to house trash bins, propping Victor up against the wall. Finally Yuuri can catch his breath and listen, but all he can hear is the rain clanging against the corrugated metal roof above their heads. The alcove is illuminated by their palms, blazing with warm bright light and throwing their faces into sharp relief, like a child holding a flashlight under his chin to tell a scary story.

Beside him, Victor hisses in pain, holding his hand to the wound in his abdomen.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” he gasps. Blood is starting to drip through his fingers, far too much, far too fast.

_(this is the way the world ends)_

“You’ll be fine,” Yuuri replies, and he almost believes it. “We’ll be fine. We’ll—Victor?”

Victor’s head drops to his chest suddenly, his shoulders slumping. Yuuri yanks the sleeve of his jacket up over his hand and pats at Victor’s cheek desperately.

“Victor, Victor, you need to stay awake,” he hears himself saying, his voice getting shriller as panic begins to rise. “Victor, please, stay with me.”

_(this is the way the world ends)_

His pleas disappear under the blare of sirens, louder and closer now. ARC is closing in, the whirr of the helicopter overhead causing ripples in the mud.

“Victor, come on, we have to—” Yuuri is cut off as Victor pulls his head up, with great effort, and the light from their hands catches his eyes and makes them look like perfect jewels.

“Y-Yuuri,” Victor whispers. “Go. I can’t.”

Yuuri shakes his head, his wet hair whipping against his forehead. “Not a chance. Not without you.”

Victor smiles, so sadly, and reaches a trembling hand out to rest on Yuuri’s heart. He’s struggling to keep his eyes open. “Please don’t die on my behalf. I’m not worth it.”

Yuuri clasps his hands together in his lap, squeezing this own hand because he can’t squeeze Victor’s. “I—” he swallows as a realization hits him. “I can’t live without you? I can’t. I don’t want to. I love you.”

Victor sniffs. “I love you too,” he replies, his voice faint.

“I wish I could kiss you right now,” Yuuri murmurs. He’s said it so many times, but it feels different now; there’s no abstraction to it. The words are achingly genuine, as stark as the light in his palm.

_(this is the way the world ends)_

Victor’s next words are drowned out by the chopper’s whipping overhead. Yuuri can see the red and blue lights reflecting on Victor’s skin. He scoots in, his thigh almost on top of Victor’s, and leans over to hear him.

“This isn’t your fault,” Victor is whispering. “It’s not—I don’t want—”

“ _Come out with your hands on your head or we will fire!_ ”

Victor makes a half-hearted attempt to push Yuuri, but he’s weak.

“—Victor,” Yuuri says loudly, so that Victor drags his eyes up to meet his. “I’m not leaving you.”

A tear races down Victor’s pale cheek. “You’ll die,” he croaks, and Yuuri realizes he’s grinning.

“I might,” he murmurs back. “But we’ll be together. And we should do it before ARC can.”

“What?”

“Victor,” Yuuri says, holding out his hand, “let’s end this.”

_(this is the way the world ends)_

Victor looks down at Yuuri’s bare palm, and then back up, eyes widening as he understands Yuuri’s words.

“Seriously?”

“The way I see it, there are two options,” Yuuri says. “Either we are Anathemas and we go out together, on our own terms...or we aren’t, and I get to kiss you for real.”

There’s an explosion of sound off to the side; they’ve rammed the gate open. He can hear the jangling steps of men in full SWAT gear, the cocking of guns. Now or never.

_(this is the way the world ends)_

“Yuuri…”

A bare hand grips his own, and the light blooms between their fingers, brighter than he thought possible.

“ _Victor_ ,” he whispers, before their lips meet.

_this is the way the world—_

 


End file.
